“Gone where?” he asked, his mind dazed
as it moved from one puzzle to another.

“We don’t know. He was attacked night
before last and carried away, whether dead or alive
we have no proof.”

“One thing at a time, Valencia. How did
you get here?”

“I drove across the mountains—­started
when I got the news from Mr. Davis that his friend
had disappeared.”

“Do you mean that you drove all night—­along
mountain roads?” he asked, amazed.

“Of course. I had to get here.”
She dismissed this as a trifle with a little gesture
of her hand. “Manuel, we must find him.
I believe he is alive. This is some of Pablo’s
work. Down in old-town some one must know where
he is. Bring him to me and I’ll make him
tell what he has done with Mr. Gordon.”

Pesquiera was healthily hungry. He would have
liked to sit down to a good breakfast, but he saw
that his cousin was laboring under a heavy nervous
tension. Cheerfully he gave up his breakfast for
the present.

But when, three hours later, he returned from the
old adobe Mexican quarter Manuel had nothing to report
but failure. Pablo had been seen by several people,
but not within the past twenty-four hours. Nor
had anything been seen of Sebastian. The two
men had disappeared from sight as completely as had
Gordon.

Valencia, in the privacy of one of the hotel parlors,
broke down and wept for the first time. Manuel
tried to comfort her by taking the girl in his arms
and petting her. She submitted to his embrace,
burying her face in his shoulder.

“Oh, Manuel, I’m a—­a murderess,”
she sobbed.

“You’re a goose,” he corrected.
“Haven’t you from the first tried to save
this man from his own rashness? You’re not
to blame in any way, Val.”

“Yes ... Yes,” she sobbed. “Pablo
and Sebastian would never have dared touch him if
they hadn’t known that I’d quarreled with
him. It all comes back to that.”

“That’s pure nonsense. For that matter,
I don’t believe he’s dead at all.
We’ll find him, as gay and insolent as ever,
I promise you.”

Hope was buoyant in the young man’s heart.
For the first time he held his sweetheart in his arms.
She clung to him, as a woman ought to her lover, palpitant,
warm, and helpless. Of course they would find
this pestiferous American who had caused her so much
worry. And then he—­Manuel—­would
claim his reward.

“Do you think so ... really? You’re
not just saying so because ...?” Her olive cheek
turned the least in the world toward him.

Manuel trod on air. He felt that he could have
flown across the range on the wings of his joy.